


Hamhock the Dog

by MoreHuman



Series: The Dog [6]
Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Dogs, Ficlet, Fluff and Humor, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:13:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23149825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoreHuman/pseuds/MoreHuman
Summary: Stevie doesn’t do baby talk.
Relationships: Stevie Budd & David Rose
Series: The Dog [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1596469
Comments: 36
Kudos: 117





	Hamhock the Dog

**Author's Note:**

> Today marks six months since I posted my first fic, and I felt like celebrating with a little Typo.
> 
> Content warning for… I’m not actually sure how to describe this. Detailed but figurative (non-graphic) descriptions of eating a dog as an expression of affection? If you’re a dog person I think you’ll get where it’s coming from, but it seemed worth warning about. I promise Typo is nothing but safe and loved throughout.

The puppy is cute?

Sure, the puppy is cute, but Stevie doesn’t do baby talk. She tries not to do talk of any kind if she can help it, as a general rule, and definitely not something like, “I just want to eat you up,” in a high, cutesy voice. Except she does say this, alone with the puppy in her apartment while David runs errands. And no one will ever know, but she’ll know. So she has no choice but to really lean into it, make it weird. She has a reputation to uphold.

“I’ll start with this part,” she says, poking at the puppy’s left haunch where it’s stretched across her lap. He lifts his head from the couch cushion and stares up at her with adoring eyes. “This little hamhock right here. I’ll slow-roast it in the broiler until it gets a nice char.”

Stevie doesn’t cook, so she has no idea if the process she’s describing makes any sense. The broiler setting on her oven has never done anything but cough up smoke, and she’s about 87% sure that’s not the intended function. But the puppy seems to agree with this recipe, his tail tapping gentle encouragement against her thigh.

“Give me that tail,” she says, grabbing at it. “I’m gonna deep fry it and roll it in cinnamon like a churro.”

The puppy cocks his head at her, one ear flopping down the way it always does when he’s sleepy. He’s either still recovering from his last nap or ready for another one. Probably both.

“I wanna crisp up your right ear and munch on it like a pork rind.” Stevie decides she can gloss over the cooking logistics and focus on her true strength, the eating. “Your left ear I’ll turn into a tortilla chip to get a big, big scoop of guacamole.”

The puppy grunts and hinges his jaws all the way past open into a full yawn. With his gray snout and white chest, he looks like the world’s tiniest great white shark.

“Then I’ll pull out your teeth and pop them like popcorn,” Stevie whispers, watching as the small white kernels appear and disappear again inside his mouth. He rolls himself more snugly into the crease of the couch and sighs back into sleep.

She strokes a hand across his face, just the way he likes, and thinks maybe she’s done now. But no, she’s a disgusting, bottomless pit so full of affection that she’s overflowing. “What if I shave off just a sliver of your cheek and dip it in ranch dressing?”

“What’s going on here?” David’s suddenly standing in the doorway, a paper bag from Brebner’s in his arms. The indignation in his voice snaps Typo instantly awake, and the puppy starts flailing himself loose from the couch cushions.

“Just what it sounds like,” Stevie says. “I’m making plans to eat your dog.”

“And pair him with _ranch_ like some peasant? At least have the decency to drizzle him in a red wine reduction!”

Stevie scoffs. “I only reduce red wine one way, and it’s not by making it into a fancy sauce.”

David crouches down and puts the Brebner’s bag on the floor. Typo, spotting the newly empty arms down on his level, trots across the floor and fills them. David glares in Stevie’s direction. “I brought snacks, but now I’m not sure you deserve them.”

“Well if you leave me hungry, there’s no telling what I might threaten to dip your dog in next. Tartar sauce? Cheez Whiz? _Artificial maple syrup_?”

David gasps and covers the puppy’s ears. “Stop, you’re upsetting him. He has a very refined palate.”

“Last week I caught him trying to eat gravel in the motel parking lot.”

“A very refined yet adventurous palate,” David corrects himself.

Typo sniffs in the direction of the grocery bag, then noses his way inside. The paper crinkles, tears, gives way completely to his enthusiasm, and its contents spill across the floor.

“Are those Fritos?” Stevie asks, pouncing without waiting for an answer. She has the package open before she even joins David on the floor, and says the next thing around a fistful of corn chips. “You know his toes smell like these, right?”

“Mm-hm.” David nods, reaching into the bag for his own fistful. “Sometimes I just want to eat them up.”

**Author's Note:**

> Grateful to my husband, who talks to our dog like this and let me give Stevie some of his best material.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Hamhock the Dog](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28239867) by [GoLBPodfics (GodOfLaundryBaskets)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GodOfLaundryBaskets/pseuds/GoLBPodfics)




End file.
